


drowning above sea

by asexuelf



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betrayal, Character Death, Elf/Elf Relationship(s), Elf/Human Relationship(s), Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Nonbinary Hawke (Dragon Age), One Shot, Other, Past Abuse, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Fenris (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 14:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20359864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexuelf/pseuds/asexuelf
Summary: After Kirkwall is destroyed, Fenris finds himself on a ship with a sick stomach, a conflicted mind, and a broken heart. But he is not alone.





	drowning above sea

**Author's Note:**

> this little one-shot has been titled "gay pirates" in my docs for MONTHS and i have finally finished it YEET!! hopefully it makes sense ;w; i find myself worried that my Psychedelic Trauma Aesthetic might make things more complicated than need be to readers ajdksldjsd
> 
> im sorry in advance for any formatting errors or confusion BUT i hope ya'll enjoy! :D

Fenris has had many nightmares since becoming a free man. Sometimes they are memories; the fleeting, feverish moments between his flesh being carved away and the molten lyrium being pressed into it. Danarius leading him by a short, expensive chain that suits the jewelry of an Alta more than a slave, the Magister’s warm laughter filling Fenris’ heart with relief (<strike>with love</strike>). All the sleepless nights between Tevinter and Kirkwall as slave-hunters hound his every step, leaving him with a paranoia so deep he will one day look over his shoulder even in the safety of Hawke’s estate.

Ever since that night, his dreams have been the same memory over and over again. 

In his dream, he watches the Chantry erupt into a beam of impossible red light. He stands and looks on in horror as the city he knew - the home he fought and bled for, had never dared to dream he could have - took its last breath, like an ailing mother's final gasp. He stares and looks on in horror as the man he’d held in his arms, taken to his bed, shared all his love with, tears their home apart.

Rubble rains down as Kirkwall catches flame. People are screaming. Fenris hears the unmistakable voices of children, high like bird cries.

The cold realization strikes him; no one in the undercity will live. With the quake of the city, the mines have likely already collapsed. The people of Lowtown and Hightown fare little better, but Darktown will not survive.

Then, “There can be no peace.”

When Anders turns their way, Fenris sees a stranger.

Then he wakes.

*

They’ve been at sea for many days now. The crew is sparse and mostly silent. They’re all refugees from Kirkwall, some refugees of Ferelden before that. The air aboard the ship is one of distinct mourning, and because of this, no one has much to say.

Fenris especially so. 

Isabela and Merrill talk quietly to each other when they have a moment to or sometimes take the other in a quiet and comforting embrace, but Fenris avoids them both. He sleeps in a separate room, refuses to eat but once every two days, and spends long hours hiding away from life aboard the vessel.

Isabela is busy throwing herself into Captain’s work, commanding the crew and steering the ship. When she’s not doing that, she’s focused on caring for Merrill, who weeps often now and is nearly as despondent as her other elven partner. Fenris does not receive such treatment - he brushes her away and so she stays her distance. A part of him wants to imagine this is her giving him space, but he knows it’s more than that, too.

Now isn’t the time for _ I told you so_’s. Fenris knows what people think of him. Nothing about this feels like he has won. Nothing about this is a victory. But, even now, after all these years, he knows they see him sometimes as the vindictive person he once was, searching for any amount of proof that the fear within him is not prejudice, but _ survival_.

This isn’t about magic, not really. The way it hurts is so much more personal.

And he _ didn’t _ tell anyone so. This is his own fault, all of it. He was the one that held the tiger, pressed his face against its teeth in love and longing, and was shocked when it finally attacked. He put his hand to flame, entranced by the dance it played for him, like a fool.

When Merrill sends him mournful glances, he looks away. He will not be a fool again.

*

The dream changes as the days pass, becoming a cacophony of noise and memory.

_ Halla-wide green eyes, mirthful and earnest, staring up at him as he fumbles the lines he wants desperately to tell her. _

_ “You are-” He keeps choking, unable to convey his devotion. His need. His love. “You are more than I have given you credit for.” And more beautiful than I have ever allowed myself to see. _

_ She seems to know what he means. Lips curling in amusement, in fondness, “Thank you, Fenris,” Danarius says, his warm amber eyes like cold steel as she leans forward and breathes against his lips. He prays she will kiss him. “What would I do without my little wolf?” _

_ “I came here, Master, to ask you something.” Anders takes his hands in his own, but downy black plumage hides his face. Fenris does not think he is smiling. “I wish to court you. Will you…” But he cannot continue. Danarius’ green eyes stare at their feet shyly, but the smile on his face (so thin, so cold,) betrays him. _

_ Behind them, a ghostly red arm grows and grows from the ground, reaching slowly to the Maker’s home. _

_ “Of course, Leto," says Justice. His eyes blaze blue. His face is spattered with blood. “I never dared to dream of a love like this.” _

_ As he kisses Merrill for the first time, his heart pounding like a boy half his age, the people of Kirkwall scream out for a mercy they will not be given. _

*

Fenris doesn't enjoy standing on deck, but it's better than breathing the smell of sick below. The air is fresh and at night, with the moons as bright and beautiful as they are, he can almost imagine he is someone else on a ship to a different place.

But Fenris has never been very good at imagining. Deluding himself, perhaps, is a talent he possesses, but he is terribly at fantasizing.

Instead of doing either, he stares at the reflection of the moon against the still waters and hears the creaking of wood and remembers.

_ "What do you think, Little Wolf?" Master asks. _

_ Fenris blinks at the man's collarbone, careful to avoid eye contact, but unable to keep his eyes at his feet. His Master looks so dashing in his sea-voyaging robes, carefully matching Fenris' own garb in a way that makes his chest feel light. "I think of pleasing you, Master." _

_ Danarius laughs. "One would hope," he says, mirthful and pleasant. "But I meant about the Qunari. About what we do in Seheron." _

_ His Master must be truly aching for company, Fenris thinks, if he would speak so to a lowly slave! But then, he has always been his Master's favorite. Fenris wants to obey him, to remain his favorite, but the question confuses him. _

_ They don't do much on Seheron - largely, Danarius looks over battleplans in case of an attack and tries to keep the colonies there by the sea from being blown up. Occasionally, they will meet with other Magisters at the small home his Master keeps along the coast, near the docks, and they will discuss politics while Fenris pours them wine and sits at their feet. _

_ "I like to serve you in Seheron," he answers honestly. It's different than at home, where there are many men to harm Danarius and many more to take their pleasure from Fenris. More remote. "And I know little of Qunari." _

_ Danarius laughs again, tickled by his slavish behavior. "Oh, my sweet, affectionate thing! I meant... the colonies, the fighting of the Qunari, etcetera. Do you think we are wasting efforts in Seheron? In the war? Should we focus our efforts on other lands?" _

_ Fenris stares down at his Master's sandled feet in confusion. _

_ "Now, pet," He sounds disapproving, but mirth has yet to leave him. "Even something like you must have thoughts of your own." _

_ "I think of you, Domine." _

_ The lapping of the water and the crying of the gulls makes Danarius' cackle sound like music. _

Now, the thought makes him ill, and he's glad for still waters and quiet skies. This is no expensive Magister's vessel and the sounds of the boat prove it. He focuses on the moment, on the ship, on the sea, and nearly misses it when Merrill comes to his side.

When she stands next to him, he stiffens on reflex. _ She is too close_, he thinks, when only so little time ago he would tell her, ‘You are not close enough.’ It’s insulting now, and terrifying, to feel her stand beside him. His mind tells him that Merrill is no different than Anders - she is a witch, drawing upon the power of demon-tasted blood to make herself his foe. She’s lulling him into a sense of complacency. She is Danarius’ fingers curling gently through his hair.

He thought himself past all that. Healthy, and still healing. But like every gentle touch and every sweet scrape of stubble, it was a lie. The poison is in him still.

He loves her desperately. Refuge could be sought with his nose pressed into her hair, his arms tight around her waist, but he doesn’t take it. He can’t.

Then she speaks.

“Do you think he was right?” He hasn’t the energy to look at her, nor the courage. “I don’t mean to say- I know your opinions on the subject. I only mean, do you think… Do you think he was right? That it was the only way Southern mages could be free?”

“No.”

He can feel her eyes on him, likely wide and shining with moonlight. If only the roiling sea were rolling forestland instead, she’d look properly Dalish again. More like the funny girl they met in Sundermount nearly a decade ago instead of a facsimile of his voyaging Master. 

“You think it will cause more harm than good?” 

Invisible fingers curl around his throat and he cannot speak. He stares unseeingly at the night-blackened waves.

Merrill doesn’t speak again. They stand side by side, standing at the railing, too tense to lean against it. The air is cold rolling off the water but they don’t move. They hardly shiver, or if they do, they don’t notice it. They’ve spent the entire trip shaking, the entire time since the sky lit up in a terrible beacon of red trembling with nerve and anger and confusion.

For a brief moment, Fenris wonders if his life would have been better if Hawke had taken Danarius’ offer.

He jolts like lightning, startling Merrill nearly as much as himself.

“I’m going below,” he says, and does just that.

*

When they reach land, somewhere in Antiva, they go to an inn where Isabela rents them a room with one bed.

Then, she leaves.

Fenris knows what she’s doing. If Merrill does (and she is so much more perceptive than she lets on), then she doesn’t allow Isabela’s plan to work. Not on her own. She curls up in the bed, turns to the side, and feigns sleep.

He knows she’s faking; in true sleep, she snores. Passing human hunters likely thought the woods they traversed were haunted, but Fenris remembers the soft rumble against his chest, the sound of it tucked under his ear. It's an awful racket, but it's one he would miss.

Sighing inwardly at Isabela’s loud message, he lies on the bed as well.

“He took the coward’s way out,” he says.

Merrill doesn’t respond, but he sees her shoulders tense. He wonders if he's insulted her.

“There were many things he could have done to fight for his cause. He’d already begun, smuggling mages from the Gallows, writing letter upon letter to those in charge, handing out his blasted manifesto to anyone able to hold parchment-” He almost chokes on the emotion threatening his throat, a burning hand clutching him so tightly he can hardly breath. “He could have gone elsewhere to speak to those in power in person, tried to gain favor with them by using Hawke’s influence. But, he never even left Kirkwall-”

And he never would.

_ Voice empty, cold, without inflection or meaning. Without remorse. “Do it. It’s what I deserve.” _

_ Sebastian’s arrow shoots through Anders’ skull, blood spilling from the wound like the Tranquil brand, and Fenris nearly vomits. _

Now, miles and miles away from a home that no longer exists, he sobs. Long-held tears finally leave him, battling and beating him. His chest contracts, shaking, shuddering with broken breath, and he weeps like he can’t remember ever doing before.

Merrill’s arm reaches across his chest. She weeps, too.

“Why?” he asks her. It’s more sob than word. _ “Why, _Anders?”

Anders will not answer him.

“You dog-fucking _ coward!” _ Anders will not hear him. “How _ dare _ you do this to me- to our _ home _-” 

Anders will never hear him again.

Fenris wraps desperately around Merrill, clawing her close and pressing his face into the uncomfortable bend of her arm. His teeth press against her skin, lips curled back in ugly emotion, but she doesn’t push him away. She clutches him just as tightly, howls her own broken pleas against his skin and into his hair.

Together, they mourn.

*

When Isabela returns, she spoons behind him, and the warmth of her flesh against him almost brings him to tears again.

Before she’s even fully settled, he whispers, “I love you.”

She freezes, then presses closer, fitting their bodies perfectly into one another. “I love you, too, Fenris.” Her voice is brittle in a way he’s never heard it, sharp and light like a broken stained glass window.

He hasn’t said those words to her since the night Anders died. Killed. Was killed.

He pulls Merrill’s sleeping form impossibly closer. When Isabela pulls Merrill’s soft sleep shirt down to cover her belly, both elves sigh in a fragile contentment.

Hawke should be here. Anders should be here.

Aveline. Varric. Donnic. Even Sebastian, whose swift arrow found Fenris’ heart. The second to betray Fenris that night - to betray all of Kirkwall.

Now, Aveline and her husband rebuild Kirkwall in preparation for the Starkhaven army that Fenris doesn't believe Prince Vael has the heart to send to war on a place he called home. Varric and Hawke left together, to hide, to flee, separating Hawke from the lovers they had left. Separating their lovers from them.

Hawke should be here.

Before, with Isabela and Merrill in his bed, he could never feel anything resembling loneliness. Now, hearing the sounds of sleep on either side as paranoia holds his own eyes open, he feels more alone than he has in years.

*

Many miles away, a man treks through rough terrain, staff in hand and scar above his eyes, his mind eerily silent for the first time in nearly a decade.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
